“Okay.” She watched the officer tap the screen of his phone. “And?”
“The man said he would take care of it. Your name was specifically used—hold on, I have to scroll through to get the right file.”
“Are you supposed to have this video?” God, she just wanted to go home and sleep right now. “I mean, shouldn’t I talk to the FBI.” Not that she cared one way or the other. “I can call whoever I need to.” And that was a problem, wasn’t it—the no-caring thing. “I mean—”
“Here it is.” He tilted his phone toward her and clicked the volume button up. “Let me know if you’ve ever seen this guy?”
The video was in black-and-white, shot from what appeared to be the upper corner of a windowless, grungy office. As she tried to orient herself, she had a mental image of someone drilling a hole in a ceiling’s Sheetrock and feeding in something of a fiber-optic nature. Whatever.
Okay, so there was a man sitting at the desk, a fat, older man who she recognized as Gigante. And then someone came in—
Jo’s heart stopped.
The man was tall and broad. Dressed in leather. And he had a Mohawk.
Swallowing hard, she tried to make her ears work. There was some kind of conversation happening on the little screen, but she couldn’t seem to hear anything. Sure, the phone’s speaker was tinny to begin with and the audio quality pretty poor. Then again, her brain was spinning with the implications—
“You know what, it’s your lucky fucking night. I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to give you a chance for redemption. As opposed to a grave.”
All at once, Gigante’s words came through loud and clear. And then she heard . . .
“You take care of this reporter problem for me,” the mob boss said in the video, “and I’ll forgive you for fucking up the Pappalardo hit.”
Say no, she thought. Tell him you won’t do it. Tell him—
“I’ll take care of it,” Syn said with absolutely no emotion at all. “What’s the name?”
“Jo Early.”
Jo sat back abruptly. “I’ve seen enough.”
McCordle paused the video. “Do you know him?”
Looking out through the windshield, she traced the details of the alley: the trash that had gathered inside the sunken doorways, deposited by capricious wind gusts. The fire escapes that ran down the buildings’ brick walls, cheap necklaces decorating the flat cleavage between rows of windows. The car on the opposite side that had a busted window, no hubcaps, and a string of curses scratched into its paint.
She thought of the night she had run from the police helicopter with Syn.
Had he planned to get her out of sight in that restaurant to do the hit? And then reconsidered when he’d found out she was like him? As in not human?
If she failed to turn into a vampire, was he going to kill her then? Gigante might be dead, but his organization continued, and from everything she’d learned about the mob, they had long memories. And how was a vampire doing hit jobs for humans? Didn’t that violate the separation of species rule?
As she considered the implications and danger of it all, images filtered through her mind and she tried to mine her interactions with Syn for clues as to his intentions.
“The FBI is going to contact you later this afternoon,” McCordle said. “I wanted to get to you first because I don’t think they realize that just because Gigante is dead, it doesn’t mean you’re safe. I tried to get them to understand this, but they’re short-staffed and focusing on Frank Pappalardo’s retaliation. They’re trying to nail him for Gigante, Senior’s killing before the violence explodes. Meanwhile, you’re here in Caldwell, walking around, unaware of anything. This hit man is at large and Gigante’s son, Junior, is still alive. Who knows what can happen.”
“Thank you,” she said dully.
“So?”
Jo looked over. “I’m sorry?”
McCordle pointed at the screen of his phone. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
Taking a deep breath, she made herself look at the image of her former lover.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t.”
When you worked a nine-to-five job, it was amazing how much you couldn’t get done during the week. After Jo left McCordle, she filled her car up with gas. She went to the dry cleaners and picked up her single pair of dress slacks. She hit the grocery store, buying some basics and two bottles of Motrin. She retrieved a pair of shoes from the cobbler’s—that had been waiting there for three months.
So it was basically a Saturday happening on a Thursday.
And all the while, she waited for the FBI to call her.
By the time she returned to her apartment, it was almost two in the afternoon. Still plenty of daylight left, and it wasn’t like she had to worry about someone shooting at her. She already knew who her hit man was, and he couldn’t go out in the sunshine.
No worries there.
After bringing in her grocery bags and her dry cleaning, she locked herself inside with the dead bolt and the chain, and put everything away. Then she went through her mail, looking for bills. She had about two months of cash on hand, and a credit card with seventeen hundred dollars of airspace on it. Impending transition and death threats aside, she was going to have to start her job search immediately.
And her financial imperative was almost a relief. If she hadn’t had to worry about something, anything, she would have gone insane.
The FBI called at 4:34—not that she knew it was them from the number. It was only after she listened to the message left by the special agent that she learned who it had been. They wanted her to phone back right away. They wanted her to come to the field office—or the agent could come to her, whatever was easiest for her. They wanted her to know that this was a serious matter, requiring her urgent attention.
Jo put her cell facedown on the table and refocused on her laptop. She had updated her résumé a month ago—almost like she’d known what was coming, huh. So it was the work of a moment to upload it on Monster.com, and start searching receptionist jobs in Caldwell. Long-term goal of departure aside, she figured it would be important to stay put until . . . well, until her body decided what it was going to do. After that? Who knew.
“Damn it,” she muttered as she sat back.
Instead of resuming the job search, she went over to the CCJ website and browsed through the articles that had been posted in the previous five hours. Was Bill doing that now? It had to be him. No one else was in the newsroom and God knew Dick wasn’t good for anything other than being a dick.
Eventually, she ended up going into the archives and re-reading the articles and updates she had written. She also looked at the photographs of Gigante and his son together, and then Johnny Pappalardo dead in that alley. And mourned the dreams she’d enjoyed for such a short time.
She was still sitting at her kitchen table when the people upstairs came home from work at six.
And she was still sitting there when the sun went down and night came.
And still sitting there when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up at attention.
Without knowing what her instincts were picking up on, she rose to her feet and went over to the front window. She had closed the venetian blinds flat after the butler had left that morning, and she didn’t want to tip off whoever it might be that she was on the alert. Angling herself awkwardly, she tried to see out the gap next to the window frame. Yeah, nope. Plus with the lights on in the apartment, she couldn’t really see anything in the darkness outside.